


Lies in Snapshots

by yaakov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Unrequited Love, Wormtail Wangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5305289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaakov/pseuds/yaakov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Pettigrew wants to feel useful and appreciated. He might have finally found his chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lies in Snapshots

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend requesting a short fic from Peter's POV.

The photograph didn't do him justice. Even in enchanted motion — the hand scrubbing through that messy black hair, his cocky grin reasserting itself over and over — James Potter was better in the flesh. He demanded more space than the average person. His loud voice pushed out lesser opinions, and his thin muscled legs always spread apart in his seat. The little square photograph in Peter’s hands couldn't contain all this, but he could recall the real moment well enough.

"Me and James!" Peter had exclaimed at the time, in his absurd, squeaky voice. "Take a picture of us!"

James raised his eyebrows over at Sirius, and they both erupted in laughter. They were always doing that, sharing private moments in public. Best mates. Peter glanced over at Remus, but Moony was only gazing the dynamic duo with a shy little grin on his face. Peter felt a flash of desperate impatience before James threw an arm across his shoulders and snuffed it out.

James nodded at Sirius. "Well, go on, then."

"Remus takes better photographs!" Peter demanded, scooting closer into James' side. James was always unnaturally warm, and the heat raised the hair on Peter's arms like electricity. He wrapped an arm around James' waist, feeling that taut abdomen press against him with each breath, and then Remus snapped the picture.

"James Potter and his biggest fan," Sirius jabbed, and Peter bristled.

"Yes, well," Peter huffed, forcing a grin. "When James scores a winning goal at the Quidditch World Cup, I'll say I was his first!"

Remus suppressed a snort and waved the camera. "You'll need to autograph this once it's developed," he said to James with a playful smirk.

Prongs and Padfoot laughed at that, of course. Remus smiled at Peter rather indulgently, a habit which had begun to annoy Peter, before adding his quieter chuckle to the other two's lively chorus.

Peter still felt a rush of embarrassment. In the photo, James' grin broke into a laugh, and Peter saw himself happily jostled under James' protective arm.

_His biggest fan,_ Peter thought for the millionth time. _Not one of his closest friends?_

Even the word "friend" felt hollow, less than he wanted.

That cocky grin teased him, and for a second Peter imagined James pressed against him, imagined how it must feel to see him smile down in a genuine way, like he does for Lily.

Peter tossed down the photo with a soft sound of frustration. He was wasting time. It wouldn't do to keep the Lestranges waiting.

He'd already closed his eyes, preparing to Apparate, when a frantic impulse seized him. Quickly and practiced, he snatched the old photo and scurried off to tuck it carefully into his bedside drawer.

* * *

It wasn't the Lestranges who awaited him but an unfamiliar man named Nott. Mr. Nott was older, of an age with Peter's father at least. His skin was dry and creased, and a patch of grizzled hair poked out from the hood of his obscuring cloak.

"The Lestranges say you're friends with Sirius Black," Nott said slowly. "James Potter."

"They're two of my best friends," Peter boasted. He winced at the sound of his distinctive voice ringing through the muffled quiet of the dark pub.

Nott pressed his wrinkled lips together in a wordless grimace, and Peter's pounding heart warned him that he'd said the wrong thing.

"Rodolphus doesn't trust you," the old man muttered. His voice was so low and gravelly that Peter strained to hear. "Seems to think you were following him and his brother. Spying on them."

Peter squawked in disbelief.

"Of course I was spying on them! Or I was supposed to be, anyway," he explained in a rush. He saw Nott's face twitch in vivid disgust. "It was me who decided to approach them. It isn't as if I got caught."

The Death Eater was silent, and Peter gave his head a tired little shake.

"I'm a member of the Order of the Phoenix," Peter hissed, glancing around his hood. As far as he could tell, the Knockturn Alley pub was largely empty. "We have meetings together, with the Potters, the Longbottoms, Black, even Dumbledore himself sometimes. I know their plans."

When Nott still looked unmoved, Peter leaned in close, trying not to breathe the old man's sour breath.

"I can _help_ you."

Nott blinked, and after a long, terrible moment, he finally asked a question.

"Why do you want to offer your services to the Dark Lord?"

A shiver shook Peter, and for a long, uncomfortable moment he could only sputter.

"He — the Dark Lord, I mean — he takes care of his followers. He even rewards them, or so I've heard."

Nott's face darkened, so Peter barreled on.

"Not that I'm after any rewards," Peter said dismissively, although he felt a twinge of excitement. "I just want to be...useful."

Even "useful" was hollow, less than he wanted.

He thought of the Lestrange brothers, tall and proud, striding down the dusky alley on some important purpose. Then, of James and Sirius, bounding on a mission, the Order’s sigil emblazoned on Muggle t-shirts, for god’s sake. (Peter’s own shirt had never fit well, as if someone had pictured him wider than he really was.) He imagined this Dark Lord nodding, genuinely appreciating Peter’s service, while James' face crumpled in shock. James would realize he'd never truly known Peter, but only because he’d never cared to.

That beautiful, lying photograph, kept safe near Peter’s bedside, would always cruelly mock him.


End file.
